The Dream-like Quality of Almost Leaving

You write poetry
By longhand
in waiting
For a tram
(Waiting is disappearing as an art form)

Or when the body is moving
Transported
The in-between times of a pedestrian
In quiet
Solitude
When it’s too late
train out of service
Wrong train

Sometimes one needs to leave
to write again or be almost leaving
Not to take things for granted

Sometimes one needs to get lost
To be able to listen to silence
The vast canyon of yourself
To run away from the familiar
Leave the road that takes you home
Slightly uneasy
While away the wander-hours

The last in a museum
The first to hear the bells ring
In the deserted streets
Before turning in
Or, once, the padded snow in
A winter night landscape.

The heart needs peace
To hear its own beat
It needs time not to count the wrongs

You write poetry when you stop
At the sight of the black girl playing the cello
In the middle of the ravelers’ din
Recognize her public act of poetry
Her offering
A sight so shattering and quenching as the buddhist monk practicing.
In a busy intersection.
(You remember the red violin
And that singular ache for Lakme’s flower duet,
or Bach’ prelude to Suite No.1)

Poetry happens
when you are supposed to do something else
When you take a day-pass instead of one-ride ticket.

Ink and watercolor on paper and tracing paper. A bit of digital manipulation. Feb. 09,2011.

Platonic Solid Exercise. Graphite on Paper. 2007

Ink on tracing paper. Kuwait, January 2010. The scene at the bottom is what I saw-or decided to see- at The Avenues, the most popular malla in Kuwait City. There is nothing like seeing photography and drawings from a trip abroad to make you realize all reality is subjective, and we choose to see what we want to. We just don’t realize it in our own backyard.

Ink on hand.book paper. Paris, 2011.

Pilot Pen on Paper. November 2009

Ink on Paper. December 2010.

Ink on Paper. September 2009

Waiting for Godot | Static Head. Digital Collage. May 5th, 2010

our very own coffee cart @ NewSchool: Cafe’ A la Carte

The Sun, the Moon, and on there being no abstracts in life. Pencil, ink, watercolor on 4″X5″ canvas.2009